


sure to find some comfort up against the hallway wall

by austen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8837476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austen/pseuds/austen
Summary: "Tech support, this is Sam." Spoilers for "It's a Terrible Life" (missing scene).





	

"Tech support, this is Sam."

"I need to see you in my office. _Now_." The word is so laden with insistency that Sam almost thinks there should be a _right the hell_ proceeding it. It's another familiarity tacked onto a long list of deja vus and what-the-hell-is-going-on-heres, and even though Sam's only been here for three weeks now, he's pretty sure that none of what's happening is normal in the workplace.

(Besides, he still can't shake the feeling that he's not supposed to be _doing_ this kind of work.)

He rides the elevator up to the right floor, to this Dean Smith's office, and tries not to think about how weird all of this is.

The door's open when he rounds the corner, and Dean's standing there doing up the buttons on his shirt. Sam clears his throat awkwardly, remembering the reason for a change of shirt in the first place. Dean's eyes snap up then, and there's a brief moment of recognition, the same way it was in the hallway when they were taking Ian out in a body bag.

"Close the door," he mutters, and Sam turns to do so, feeling the other man's eyes on his back all the while.

Something's telling him that now might be the time to crack a joke, but his mouth opens seconds before his brain catches up to comment on that poor decision.

"I mean, I know they say that work can be a killer, but I never thought--" Sam turns around mid-sentence just in time to see that Dean's not laughing. He closes his mouth. Dean almost looks relieved by that move.

"Who the hell are you?" he asks, and Sam inwardly flails for some kind of a response. What kind of a question is that? He's Sam Wesson, and he'll offer that name out loud without much hesitation. As far as the rest of it goes: the dreams, the instincts, the sense that all of this is so much more mundane than the life he's _supposed_ to be leaving? He'll take that part out for now.

"You cornered me in the elevator," Dean's saying, in a tone that's probably supposed to sound a lot angrier than it's coming out, "talking about _ghosts_. And now..."

His expression falters; Sam's gaze locks in, and he watches the other man struggle to find the words to talk about exactly what transpired in that bathroom.

"Now what?" he prompts, waiting for Dean to come forward with some kind of information.

"Now nothing." Dean shakes his head, but Sam's not going to let that slide so easily. There's something in their conversation that's convincing him he needs to keep pressing the issue, because otherwise Dean will shut up and say nothing, and he's always _hated_ when he does that--

Sam cuts off his own train of thought. _Always?_ Where the hell is this even coming from? His hands tighten a little harder on the leather strap of his messenger bag, and the movement must catch Dean's attention, because when he focuses in on the other man's face, Dean's walking around his desk to lean back against the front, bracing the palms of his hands on the wood.

"Did you see something?" Sam asks, pushing a little, waiting for something to give.

"I don't know. I don't know what I saw," Dean mutters, shaking his head like he's trying to dismiss all shred of ghosts from his mind.

"Are you saying - did you see a ghost?" Sam drops his bag then; it hits the floor with a dull sound, almost like a gun being fired in the distance, and Dean breaks.

"I was freaking out. The guy penciled his damn _neck_." He mimes jabbing fingers into his own to illustrate. Sam resists the urge to wince.

"You did, didn't you. I mean, listen. What if these suicides aren't suicides? What if there's something not... _natural_?"

Dean's eyes are still meeting his, gaze determined and firm, and Sam has to pause to wrap his mind around everything. His memory takes him back to the dream from earlier at the cubicle, and again, he can almost taste the tang of sweat, smell the metallic scent of blood, feel the weight of a rifle in his hand. He looks over at Dean and realizes he can place a face to the man fighting alongside him now.

"So what, ghosts are real? That they're responsible for all the dead bodies around here? Is that what you're telling me?" Dean's still skeptical, but at least he hasn't kicked him out of his office yet.

"I know it sounds crazy. But yes, that's what I'm telling you," Sam replies insistently.

"Uh huh. Based on what?"

"Instinct."

The word catches both of them off-guard; there's a long period of silence in which Sam jams his hands into his pockets and Dean's grip tightens a little harder on the smooth edge of the desk. Sam bites his lip hard. For some reason, his attention is waning again, but this time it doesn't have anything to do with daydreaming.

Instead, it's got a whole lot to do with the fact that Dean hasn't buttoned up his shirt completely, and the way he's leaning back against the desk... _no_. Whatever tricks his mind has been playing on him before, this doesn't even compare to the kind of shit that's being pulled now. Just because they've been thrust into this doesn't mean, it _can't_ mean--

"The dreams I've been having," Sam blurts out. "About ghosts. You... were in them too."

"So what, what're you saying? That we're partners or somethin'?"

"I don't think so. More like brothers, actually. But it's weird, too, because we were hunting these things. Ghosts, vampires--"

"Vampires," Dean scoffs.

"I'm serious. We did it together," Sam says, and the syllables barely make it out before he realizes that the distance between them is shrinking by the second. Dean's pushed himself away from the desk a little, but what that only serves to do is to push him closer to _Sam_ , and they hover in each other's space. There's something on Dean's breath that Sam can't identify, but it smells a lot like lemon.

"Together," Dean echoes. Sam just nods very slowly as Dean moves to brush past him, and in the process, his hip ghosts against Sam's groin. Sam throws out an arm in front of Dean to stop him before they both look at his arm as though it has a mind of its own, tracking the progress of Sam's hand as it moves lower, lower, finding a place to rest on Dean's other side.

"Dude, I _told_ you, I don't--"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam mutters, and yanks the other man in, pressing his body flush against Dean's. The first kiss between them is messy and fumbling as they try to find an angle to work from, but in the back of Sam's mind, it sort of feels like he's being directed by something larger than himself, something that knows how this works, and he's just being pulled along for the ride. He kisses Dean, hot and rough and hungry, and Dean groans against his mouth. Sam tastes the lemon and peppery combination, and it only drives him on further, waiting for the second when Dean's lips part to slide his tongue into his mouth.

Dean's hands are gripping his shirt, grabbing fistfuls of yellow cotton, and Sam already wants it off, other than the obvious reason that he just hates that shirt. Hates that shirt, hates his job, hates everything that isn't ghosts and Dean and _this_. His hands join Dean's, lifting his arms to pull it up over his head, and it gets tossed somewhere behind them, but that doesn't matter when all Sam's concentrating on is getting Dean's off too, his fingers fumbling with those buttons that are just too damn small to make quick work of. But it comes off soon enough and they're standing shirtless in Dean's office, kissing each other hard enough to hurt.

Sam reaches down then, one hand dipping between their bodies to cup his hand around Dean's clothed groin. He can feel Dean's cock swell, straining beneath the fabric, and his own stirs in response, pressing hard against the restrictive khaki material. He's still kissing Dean, still massaging his tongue against Dean's, but his hand below is working now too, rubbing and gently squeezing the other man's erection until Dean desperately paws at his arm, his watch scratching Sam's forearm. Sam doesn't waste time; he undoes the belt with confident hands, lowers the zipper, and yanks down pants and boxers in one smooth movement. Only then does he allow himself to look at the full sight in front of him: Dean, naked, flushed, panting, bracing his weight on the desk again to keep from tipping over, completely and unapologetically putting himself on display for Sam. 

Sam can't help it; he groans out loud and gets down on his knees. He can get a better look at Dean's cock from here: red, swollen with arousal, a bead of precome on the tip. Sam leans forward, one hand firmly wrapping around the base as he pumps Dean, and Dean lets out a quiet stream of a few curses that sound all-too familiar in this context. Sam moves in, opening his mouth to take Dean in, slowly, agonizingly, inch by inch. He opens his eyes and looks upward to see Dean's head dipped back, his lips slightly parted in a silent _oh_ as Sam sucks, his head bobbing up and down in time with the motions of his hand working Dean at the base.

"God _damn_ ," Dean breathes, and Sam releases a breathy chuckle around his cock, making Dean's hips jerk upward. He can tell the other man's close already, waits for the inevitable. But Dean stops, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"No, stop, wait." Sam pulls away, licks his lips, and Dean helps him to his feet.

"This isn't the way we're supposed to do this," Dean says, and he's so insistent about it that Sam _knows_ : it's definitely not.

They get Sam's pants off then. Boxers too, and the way Dean's eyes roam over him is almost enough to make Sam come then and there, without any touching at all. They kiss again, and even though Sam thinks Dean might be weirded out by the idea of tasting himself, he doesn't show any signs of disliking it. Their bodies surge together, and the first time Dean's cock touches his, Sam digs the blunts of his fingernails into Dean's hipbones. Dean's hand moves to take not just Sam's cock in his hand, but his own as well, and the sensation alone sends Sam falling forward, bearing Dean down onto the desk. Papers flutter to the floor and pencils roll over the edge and drop while Sam works his hips forward, thrusting into Dean's hand, forward and backward, faster and faster. They're doing this, Sam thinks, they're doing this _together_ , like they always have, and after that there's nothing coherent in his brain, nothing lingering except the words _God_ and _yes_ and _Dean_ , all jumbled together.

Dean stiffens first, already close from Sam's mouth, and Sam lifts his knee up onto the desk to change the angle at which he's thrusting into Dean's hand. It won't be much longer, it's not going to be much longer at all; one, two, _three_ and Dean's coming, spilling hot over his hand and Sam's cock.

" _Sammy_ ," Dean gasps, and Sam doesn't need anymore incentive than that.

He comes, hard, with a fast jerking of his hips and a series of shivers as his body clenches and releases everything in long spurts over Dean's stomach and hand. They stay like that for a while, until Sam's heart feels like it can stop racing and his hip starts to stiffen up. He pulls away, stands up, and Dean reaches for the box of Kleenex on his desk to clean them up. They dress quickly, occasionally sharing a glance as Dean zips up his pants and Sam pulls his shirt on over his head.

Dean doesn't say anything, which Sam isn't sure how to take, and they're sure as hell not going to be able to just sit back down and start talking about ghosts again, so he picks up his bag and starts heading for the door. Right when his fingertips brush the handle, Dean speaks up.

"I've got the same instinct."

Sam glances over one shoulder.

Dean's sitting behind his desk again, and this time, he motions for Sam to sit.

As he sits, Sam can't help but hide a grin with one hand.

Because _this_ work?

This work he can definitely get used to.


End file.
